Crimson red dressed, I ply the fading light
In service of a trade that gives some fright;
Made to give purchase of wanton pleasure;
To quell sexual tastes only but few, do treasure.
Johns-of-the night, deviance inclined,
Who seek and know well how to find;
To pay for what cannot be easily bought:
To be treated badly; what is most sought.
Unrepentant, I give to what is desired;
Their brutal demands, why I’m hired;
Whips, chains, shackles all part, of course;
Without mercy, inflicted, with pleasure given force.
Their screams, shouts and, whimpers plead
Not to stop their punishment, even to bleed;
Unrelenting, feelings of harshness deemed cruel;
Yields for me emotions; a struggle’s duel.
Simply put: mine is to service, to abide;
Demanding truth to civility, to conveniently hide;
For though this profession, by some to disdain;
Sought purely for fortune, not the glib of fame.